


ain't ever getting older

by slyther_ing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Prom, Secret Relationship, Underage Drinking, also like, basically the entirety of Hogwarts alright, bc hormones whoo, bc somebody spiked the punch lmao, because Hogwarts is now a high school, one explicit thigh fucking scene, very little angst barely any at all, yes this is the prom au that nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8161010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slyther_ing/pseuds/slyther_ing
Summary: Prom rears its head at Hogwarts High, and suddenly, Oliver Wood finds himself in the middle of a who's-going-to-ask-who rumor party when all he cares about is winning the soccer championship. All his friends are trying to set him up and urge him to add some romance into his life. Which is great and all, but he's kinda already dating a certain football captain. Whoops.(or: the HS Prom AU that nobody asked for.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for secret relationships getting revealed.
> 
> Flintwood fluff up ahead - plus a sprinkling of my favorite rare ships. Title taken from "Closer" by The Chainsmokers bc song of the summer guys, man I miss summer.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Marcus Flint is _such_ a bad boy.” Oliver hears during first period on Monday. Calculus isn’t enough to keep him awake but the comment coming from Lavender Brown is.

“Shhh, Lav!” Daphne Greengrass giggles, eyes darting to where said bad boy is twirling a pencil with feet raised on the desk in front of him. “Shhh, he’ll hear.”

The rest of the class is talking so loud Oliver doubts Flint would hear even if Lavender had yelled. Their AP Calculus teacher isn’t known for being the most controlling of educators. The only reason Oliver can hear them is because they’re directly behind his desk, where he’s attempting to solve a differential equation to no avail.

“He is, though.” Parvati Patil pipes up. “Just look at that leather jacket. And those _biceps_.”

The three girls burst into another fit of giggles. Oliver watches Marcus blow a large bubble before getting reprimanded by Ms. Vector, and bites down his own laugh.

Bad boy, my ass, Oliver thinks. Last Friday, he and Marcus had watched _Up_ , and the football captain had cried through the whole first half. Oliver’s pretty sure Marcus had gone through a whole box of tissues.

Oliver meets Angelina, the captain of the girl’s soccer team, in the hall once first period concludes, and they make their way to their shared history class.

“Honestly, this school’s going insane.” Angelina says exhaustedly, in a way that’s not about it being Monday. “In chemistry, Susan Bones almost spilled silver nitrate everywhere when the prom theme came out.”

Oliver notes the large red posters now plastering the walls. **Romeo & Juliet**, they boast in glittery calligraphy, **Come with your forbidden love!** Oliver wonders when tragic double suicides suddenly became romantic, but he’s learned not to question the inner workings of Hogwarts High.

A whirl of dark curly hair knocks into Oliver before he can respond to Angelina. “Oh hi, Oliver.” Romilda Vane looks up at him, batting her eyelashes. “How was your weekend?” Her crew of girls start whispering excitedly to each other behind their hands.

“Um, alright.” Oliver stutters. On Saturday, he’d called an unofficial soccer practice for the team – championships are in two months’ time – and on Sunday, he’d spent the day trying to catch up on homework. “Uneventful. You?”

“Oh, it was boooring.” Romilda draws out the word. “Didn’t have anyone to hang out with.”  
  
Angelina snorts. Oliver blinks. Romilda bats her lashes a couple times more, before readjusting her backpack and suddenly looking very busy, friends tittering behind her.

“Well, see you around, Wood!” Romilda calls, brushing past Oliver’s shoulder and waggling her fingers.

Angelina waits until Romilda’s crew disappears from sight before she dissolves into laughter. Oliver frowns in confusion because, really, he’d never even exchanged more than a couple words with Romilda Vane. He doesn’t see what’s so funny.  
  
“Oh man, the prom fever is starting.” Angelina chuckles, wiping away a tear as they settle into their seats.

“Prom?” Oliver asks.

Angelina points a pen at his nose, and Oliver scoots away from the uncapped tip. “I know you’re a soccer fiend and only ever think about the game, Wood, but even you can’t escape from prom. You’re a good pick for a date, y’know.” She says bluntly, before pulling out her notebook and turning to pay attention to Mr. Binns and his long-winding lecture.

It’s not that Oliver wants to ‘escape’ from prom as Angelina says. It just so happens that the championship game for soccer is the day right before the dance. As soccer captain and this being Oliver’s senior year, he really, really, really wants to win. Some people who don’t understand call him obsessed – he just thinks he’s driven. 

High school status quo makes it so that Oliver is going to be pestered into going to prom, but he’s not looking forward to the prospect of asking a girl just for the sake of having a date. It’s not like he and Marcus can just show up arm in arm and pretend like their oh-so-famous animosity had disappeared overnight.

Because for some reason, the entirety of their school thinks that Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood have major beef. It might have had to do with the fist fight they got into in the cafeteria during freshman year, back when Oliver had been a scrawny thing who was constantly scraped up from soccer games, and Marcus had terrible braces. Slytherin Preparatory Middle School was known for doling out the most insolent rich kids, and when they all combined in Hogwarts High, animosity sprung up like weeds. Marcus had bullied Oliver out of his seat, and Oliver had swung first.

It doesn’t help that Marcus is just generally grouchy whenever he’s in school, so the student body takes the football captain knocking into Oliver’s shoulder as they pass as hostile, rather than a very Marcus way of saying hello.

They’d winded up in detention after that first fight and bonded over the mutual anger of missing out on practice. And when Marcus decided to throw caution to the wind and kissed Oliver fiercely one day in the locker rooms – well, Oliver just couldn’t say no. It’s been almost two years of secret Friday dates and slipping notes into each other’s hands while pretending to argue.

He doesn’t really mind, at the end of the day. It’s not like he wants to invite the entire school into their relationship.

“Are you going to take notes or not?” Angelina knocks his elbow with hers, noticing that Oliver’s zoned out and doodling stars all over his paper.

“I’ll just ask Percy. He took this class last year.” Oliver responds, now scratching out the most recent play their coach had discussed with him.

A wad of paper hits him in the back of the head. “Psst, Wood!” Fred Weasley whispers. “Oi, Captain, who’re you going to ask to prom?”

Oliver turns back, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t George the one who’s supposed to be in this class?”

The redhead shrugs. “He’s sick today. So I’ll be playing defense for the both of us.” Fred gives Oliver a roguish wink and the brunet sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine, Weasley, but make sure your brother gets well soon. Can’t be down a team member.” Oliver says sternly.

“That means no prank soups.” Angelina pipes up, throwing the wad of paper back at Fred. “And you didn’t answer his question, Oliver.”

Oliver lets out a weary sigh – obviously, his friends aren’t going to let up. “I don’t know, alright? I probably just won’t go.”

The whole class stops shuffling, even with Mr. Binns droning on, and Oliver realizes for the first time that every student had been listening into their conversation. He curses - choosing to sit in the middle of the room had not been a smart move.  
  
“You have to!” Hannah Abbot cries, before blushing profusely as all eyes turn to her. “I-I mean, it’s tradition for all the Prom King nominees to go.” She says in a hasty explanation. Next to her, Ernie MacMillan nods furiously.

Oliver’s eyes widen. “Wait – I didn’t - who the fuck nominated me for Prom King?”

“We did.” Fred grins, not looking put out at all by Oliver’s returning glare. “The team, I mean. Harry was against it, but we talked him around.”

Oliver makes sure to make them all run extra laps today. Except for Harry, who’s still a good man.

“Aw, I feel you, Wood.” Cedric Diggory says good naturedly from the front of the class. “I got force-nominated by my team too. Some friendly competition, yeah?” The captain of the swimming team gives a mock salute to Oliver, who grins begrudgingly. Nobody can say no to Diggory.

“Fine, fine.” Oliver sighs. He’s going to have to figure something out now, it seems. He wonders if either Alicia or Katie would be willing to just go as friends, but he’s pretty sure his team won’t let him get out of it that easily – they’ve been hell bent on setting him up with someone for months.

“And it’ll be good to take Flint down a few pegs.” Fred smirks. “It’ll be hilarious to see him lose even with Fleur Delacour on his arm.”

Oliver’s eyes narrow, flash of jealousy that he still can’t shake rushing through him. He tries to play nonchalant as Hannah Abbot starts whispering into Ernie MacMillan’s ear. “Fleur?”

Angelina rolls her eyes, obviously put out by the display of male posturing in the room. “Don’t football captains usually go with the head cheerleader? The last few captains have, and they’ve always won Prom King and Queen.”

“Huh.” Oliver says, not really getting it.

“I saw Flint chatting Delacour up by her locker this morning.” Marietta Edgecombe whispers conspiratorially, and the class dissolves into whispers about who the long term French exchange student will end up picking. Oliver can’t help the frown that paints across his face, and he really, really doesn’t like where this is going, but then Mr. Binns chokes on a sip of his coffee and the room dissolves into chaos.

Prom files itself away in the back of Oliver’s mind, as Hannah rushes off to get the nurse. He’ll deal with that _after_ practice. 

*******

His reprieve from thoughts about prom, however, only lasts a measly three days, because by the end of the week, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil have drawn up a color coded chart, listing practically everyone in the student body and who they might be potentially going with. The duo guard their chart jealously, but Seamus Finnigan had managed to snap a blurry picture.

It was on Twitter within the next minute, and Hogwarts had flipped its collective shit.

Oliver walks into school on Friday, ready for an easy schedule, only to be accosted by his entire soccer team. He’s dragged into the nearest boy’s bathroom and made to perch on a sink as ten faces stare seriously back at him.

“Um.”

“We’re going to help you get Fleur.” Ron Weasley says immediately, and Oliver stares at the junior in confusion.

“What?”

“The chart.” Dean Thomas says in calm explanation, beginning to pace in front of the twins, who are guarding the bathroom door. “Parvati and Lavender wrote down that you’d be a good match with Fleur, and we’re here to make that happen.”

Oliver gapes silently, mouth opening and closing and brain whirring to try to come up with a suitable denial. “I-I don’t even like her…? Like that, I mean she’s alright, but-”

Blaise Zabini snorts from where he’s lounging against the wall, Draco Malfoy inspecting his nails nonchalantly at his side.

“Alright? She’s fucking hot.” Blaise supplements as Oliver narrows his eyes, befuddled.

“And that’s Zabini saying it.” Draco says – the two former Slytherin Prep students start snickering, no doubt an inside joke that the rest of the team hasn’t been given privy to. George catches Ron’s eye and mimics polishing his fingernails with a hoity-toity expression. Oliver glares at them until they stop laughing.

Fred looks thoughtful. “And Wood, you looked pretty bothered by the idea of Flint and her going together.”

“Well-”

“She’d be a great running mate for Prom King and Queen.” Dean says diplomatically, cutting off Oliver’s tentative interjection. “And who knows? You guys might hit it off.”

The hopeful and teasing glances from all his teammates makes Oliver bite back a groan. “Guys, I told you, I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”

“But still,” Harry pipes up from behind Ron, “Don’t you want to see the look on Flint’s face when you win over him? If he’s going for Fleur as well, it’d be the final one-up you have on him.”

Michael Corner raises his hand awkwardly. “Er, hold on, someone explain to me why we hate Flint and the football team so much?” The sophomore, who’d been subbed into the team late due to Zacharias Smith’s injury, looks wary as all eyes turn to him.

“They’re grade A dicks.” George responds promptly.

“Swan around like they own the place.” Justin Finch-Fletchley joins in. “And Flint’s always in that stupid letterman.”

“He was wearing a leather jacket today.” Oliver says before he can stop himself. Ten pairs of eyes swing over to him, and he coughs awkwardly. “Uh, I heard Greengrass giggling about it.”

Michael still looks puzzled. “But hold on.” He gestures towards Blaise and Draco, who are still looking thoroughly unbothered by the whole affair. “Didn’t you guys go to school together before we combined? And Malfoy, you used to be on the football team as kicker.”

Draco fixes Michael Corner with a cool stare. “Flint replaced me with Terence Higgs. I could give a shit about the lot after that.” He sniffs reproachfully, and Blaise rolls his eyes off to the side at his friend’s dramatic antics.

“Anyways,” Harry says loudly, looking as annoyed as he usually does whenever Malfoy talks, “We’re your wingmen for the next month, Oliver. What do you want us to do?”

Oliver looks around, his team looking as if getting Oliver with Fleur Delacour is just as important as winning the championship. One glance at Fred and George’s identical scheming expressions has him internally groaning. “Look, why don’t you guys relax? Uh, I’ll give it a shot myself first, and then if I need…help?”

“We’ll step right in.” Ron promises, and Oliver wonders when exactly his friends had gotten on par with Brown and Patil in terms of love for matchmaking.

He waves them all off to their classes, yelling after them about not getting “any more detentions, Potter, I need you there at practice!”, before whipping out his phone and keyboard smashing a text to Marcus.

 

[8:17] _adsjfadkjflsaj_

[8:18] **??????**

[8:18] **did Potter get detention again**

[8:18] **do I have to whoop his ass**

[8:19] _I need my players in one piece ok_

[8:19] _no, but they want to set me up w/ Fleur Delacour_

[8:19] _like?? why is prom king even a thing??? why a girl??_

[8:20] _MAYBE I LIKE DICK DID THEY EVER THINK OF THAT_

 

A stern glance from his French teacher forces Oliver to shove his phone back into his pocket, even though the constant buzzing means that Marcus has a lot to say. He’s about to sneakily pull it back out again (sitting in the back of the classroom has its perks) when Fleur Delacour drops into the seat next to him.

The entire class seems to intake a sharp breath. Oliver wants to bang his head on his desk.

An imperious glance from the head cheerleader is enough to have everyone shuffling in their seats, heads turning back to the front of the classroom where the teacher has started droning about vocabulary lists.

“Hello, Wood.” Fleur says delicately, brushing eraser crumbs off of her desk. Why the long-term French exchange student decided to take French still confuses him, but it makes a bit more sense when Fleur whips out her other homework.

“Hi, Fleur.” Oliver says awkwardly because the cheerleader is gorgeous, after all. They’re not on unfriendly terms, but no doubt, she’s heard all the rumors already. Oliver’s unsure of just how to approach the elephant in the room, when Fleur cuts to the chase herself.

 “Zis prom thing eez insane.” She sniffs. “It seems boring and - ” Fleur fixes Oliver with a brilliant blue stare, “We both ‘ave boyfriends.”

Oliver accidentally pokes a hole through his worksheet. “How did you - ”

“A locker room is not an appropriate place for a make out session.” Fleur says primly, but she’s grinning as Oliver blushes. “Although I guess I could see the appeal.” She adds as an afterthought.

Oliver rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment at Fleur walking in on him and Marcus, but he breathes a sigh of relief – the fact that Fleur knows, and is wholly uninterested with the whole ordeal makes his life a hell of a lot easier. “Good. Good, because I swear the whole school has lost its damn mind.”

Fleur laughs loudly, the sound drawing the attention of the rest of the class, but another glare from the both of them takes care of that. “’Owever, I know for a fact zat Fred and George are taking bets.”

“Oh, are they now?”

“We could make quite a bit of money.” Fleur smiles delicately, and her eyes are glittering with amusement at the prospect of shocking the Weasley twins. Oliver can only laugh in response, worries considerably lightened knowing that Fleur is as put out by the whole thing as he is.

“The rumors, though.” Oliver brings up, “How are you going to deal with everyone asking all the time? It’s only been a week and they’ve been following your every move.”

“Oh, I always ‘ave something up my sleeve.” Fleur says, and Oliver believes her completely.

His phone is lit up with notifications when he finally remembers to check it before lunch – a jumble from the soccer team group chat that's half memes, half Harry and Malfoy passive aggressively needling each other, one from Percy reminding him that Fred and George need a ride home today. Oliver swipes to check Marcus’ texts first, pulling his granola bar away from Angelina’s sneaky hands.

[8:20] **damn right you like dick**

[8:21] **You love putting your mouth on mine**

[8:21] **fuck I love your mouth**

 

Oliver chokes on his water, scrolling away quickly so that his friends around him won’t see. His friends are nosy, alright? They all have the bad habit of reading over people’s shoulders.

 

[8:23] **sorry, I got distracted I wasn’t supposed to start sexting u was I**

[8:33] **tell your team to lay off, man EXERT DOMINANCE**

[8:33] **also you’re mine so lmao id like to see them try**

Oliver can’t help rolling his eyes at the possessiveness in Marcus’ last text. Subtlety is not exactly one of Flint’s better skills. Once, Marcus had taken a Sharpie and drew little x’s on Oliver’s body, marking everywhere he’d kissed that afternoon. It’d been both a pain to wash off and to explain to his team in the locker rooms.

“Heard Fleur talked to you in French today.” Angelina says, stealing a chip from Katie.

“We're classmates.” Oliver says exasperatedly. “Can’t people talk without everyone getting up in arms?”

“Not when it’s prom season.” Alicia says, grabbing Oliver’s granola bar and handing it to a cheering Angelina. Oliver counters by stealing Alicia’s apple, grinning cheekily as he bites into it.

Fred and George swoop down on either side of him, Harry, Ron, and their friend Hermione following closely behind.

“Got to get a move on, Wood.” Fred nods his head in the direction of the middle of the cafeteria, where the football team and cheerleaders usually take their lunch. Oliver watches Marcus lean closer to hear something Fleur’s whispering into his ear, and shrugs back at the twins.

“M’not worried.” He mumbles through a bite of his sandwich. “It’s just Flint.”

A sharp whack to his back almost has him choking on his food. “That’s the confidence we know from you, Captain!” George says heartily. “Go get your girl!”

Oliver hastily shushes him as Lavender and Parvati turn around, intrigued by the noise. They whisper together for a moment before making a mark on their table. God fucking damn it, Oliver thinks, this whole thing is never going to end.

His phone is buzzing constantly by his thigh, but Oliver’s too preoccupied listening to Fred and George debating Hermione about the romantic aspects of their prom theme.

(“It’s the great tragedy of two star-crossed lovers! The pain, the heart-wrenching beauty, the passionate devotion!” Fred cries dramatically.

“Juliet was thirteen and it was all a big miscommunication, so help me if I don't see anything romantic about _that_.” Hermione says, deadpan.)

It’s not until the notifications get really overboard that Oliver gets fed up with the constant vibrating.

 

[11:42] **so Delacour knows??**

[11:42] **how did that happen**

[11:42] **ok not important but she says shes gnna goad the rumors on**

[11:43] **i think she said goad, it might’ve been goat, idk**

[11:43] **Adrian was yelling at Cassius about something, it was loud**

[11:45] **goat doesn’t make sense, she def said goad**

[11:47] **STOP IGNORING YOUR PHONE**

[11:50] **respond damnit I can SEE you reading these**

[11:51] **Ollieeeeeee**

[11:51] _you’re whiny today, aren’t you_

[11:53] **fuck off :)**

Marcus Flint is most definitely not a bad boy, Oliver thinks, because Marcus is carefully peeling apart his sandwich to remove the tomatoes, scowling as a seed sticks to his fingers. The quarterback looks up just as Oliver is looking over, and Flint flips him off with a sneer.

“Ugh.” Katie wrinkles her nose, watching Flint’s display.

“Ugh.” Oliver agrees, because he knows he’s going to get so much shit for not responding to Marcus’ texts.

*******

True to her word, Fleur Delacour goads the rumors on. Oliver is pretty sure it’s because she thinks she and her French chicness are above such basic high school things. That, and she seems to get a kick out of raising everyone’s expectations and leading her group of friends on a wild-goose chase. The head cheerleader’s far more mischievous than most people think.

“I will not be running for zis Prom Queen thing you are all talking about.” Fleur says loudly, one day in French. “I already know I am pretty, thank you very much.”

Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass look incredibly put out by this declaration, and Lavender and Parvati begrudgingly erase a row from their table. Fleur merely twirls her pink pen fluidly through her fingers, shooting Oliver teasing glances.

“I ‘ave something else zat will be fun too.” She whispers to him once everyone has split up to read through the new vocabulary lists. “Stick by my lockers.”

Oliver’s puzzled, but so far nothing disastrous has occurred from Fleur’s meddling, and he’s not about to stop her fun. She swans out of the classroom imperiously when the bell rings, and Oliver darts towards his own locker, just a few down from Delacour’s.

Fleur gives a loud gasp of false excitement, and a gaggle of cheerleaders and friends crowd around her, Oliver able to see a small piece of paper held in her delicate grasp.

“Ooh,” Lavender Brown coos, “Ooh, what do you have there, Fleur?”

Fleur glances down her dainty nose at the open sheet. “Ah yes I believe this – ah ‘ow you say – love note was left in my locker? ‘mm ze writing is familiar…”

“You know the writing?” Romilda Vane pipes up, trying to grab at the little paper, but Fleur waves it away.

“Yes, yes, I see it in class all ze time.” Fleur gestures encouragingly.

Parvati titters excitedly. “What class?!”

“’Mmmm, I’m not sure, but a recent one…”

“Oh my god, FLEUR, THAT'S TOTALLY FROM FLINT!” Daphne coos.

Fleur shoots her fellow blonde an exasperated look, little plot not getting through to her friends, and annoyance is visible in the set of her shoulders.

“O’ please.” Fleur snaps “Flint doesn’t write _love notes_. At least jump to ze right wrong conclusion.” She stalks off, leaving the entire hall silent in confusion, and Oliver shakes with laughter, hiding behind his own open locker door. Marcus stumbles out from a classroom a moment later, and all the curious glances at the quarterback makes Oliver dash to the bathroom to not break the illusion, cackles ringing against the bathroom tiles.

*******

Prom moves slowly closer, and a month passes in a blur of homework, practices in the increasingly hotter weather, and him and Marcus driving everywhere on Sundays, windows down and music blasting down otherwise empty dirt roads.

Katie Bell starts blushing every time someone mentions prom, while Alicia and Angelina are constantly bickering about what they should do with their hair.

(“Natural is the way to go.”

“The humidity, Spinnet? Are you out of your mind?”)

The people who have dates are getting antsy about picking out their outfits and arranging prom details. The people who don’t have dates are antsy as they watch more and more people pair off. Oliver wonders hazily when high school became some pseudo reality-TV competition, a less strenuous form of the Bachelorette.

“Look,” Oliver hears Adrian gripe to Marcus one day as they’re switching off the field, “I don’t know why Terence is pissed at me. All I did was ask whether Cho Chang had a date already and he refused to talk to me!”

“Man, you’re dumb.” Marcus snorts. He knocks Oliver on the shoulder. “Watch yourself, Wood.”

“Fuck off, Flint.” Oliver snipes back, and Marcus gives him a smirk as he heads into the locker rooms.

Percy Weasley, Student Council President, accosts Oliver in the hallway one day as Oliver’s about to head home.

“Oliver!”  
  
“Oh hey, Perce.” Oliver says, swinging his equipment bag over his shoulder. “Have you finally finished that research paper and have time for the mere high school world again?”

Percy fights the urge to roll his eyes, glaring sternly at the grinning goalie. “It was a very important paper about the UN, and no, I don’t have time for the ‘high school world’, mainly because everyone’s betting on whether you or Flint are going to ‘get the girl’.”

Oliver grins, the circumstances now more a comedy show than something annoying. “Ah, so that’s still going on.”

“Honestly, Oliver,” the redhead says, lowering his voice, “Can’t you just come clean and tell them about Flint?”

Percy’s known about Oliver and Marcus since almost the beginning – when Percy and him aren’t both simultaneously drowning in their respective ambitions, they’re pretty close friends. It didn’t help that Percy had been over at Oliver’s house that one time Marcus decided to sneak in without informing him first.

(“Flint?”  
  
“Weasley?”

“Oh, fuck.” Oliver had said, banging his head on the fridge as his boyfriend and best friend had pointed accusatory fingers at one another.)

“Now, Perce,” Oliver says, winking, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Percy sniffs reproachfully. “You say fun; I say I’ve ran out of classrooms for assigning detention. The amount of _gambling_ going on, honestly.”

Oliver laughs at the sight of Percy’s affronted expression, eyebrows drawn and lips curling as if seeing a particularly nasty cockroach. “It’ll be over soon, Percy – don’t have too much fun making them do lines, alright?”

The Monday after, however, the wager of whether Oliver or Marcus will win the girl falls to a lull, as rumors from the weekend start flying. There’d been a party, hosted by one of the football players on Saturday – and when Oliver walks into Calculus that morning, all he hears is ‘Marcus Flint and Padma Patil’ and it takes that combination of names a couple moments to register in his sleepy brain.

“Er, what?” Oliver nudges Susan Bones, who looks bored with the proceedings.

“Apparently,” Susan says, with an air of someone who’s heard the same story too many times, “Flint hooked up with Patil at the party on Saturday, and because it’s so close to prom – even _he’s_ not that big of a dick to just throw her to the side after that – or so everyone says. Apparently, he was chatting with her this morning too and totally blew off his team when they asked as well.”

Oliver runs his hands through his hair, desperately trying to make sense of this supposed high school hookup logic. “Okay but – what does all that mean?”

Susan just shrugs.

Oliver makes it through the day with only four instances of hearing details about said rumor, but it’s what his classmates are buzzing with, a constant noise that he’s sure is responsible for the vein throbbing in Marcus’ temple when he runs into his boyfriend in the hallway on the way back from the bathroom.

“Wood -” Marcus starts.

“Not here.” Oliver hisses, because Fred and George’s voices can be heard from around the corner. He catches Marcus’ wrist and gives it a squeeze, reassuring and shoots Marcus a small smile before darting back into his class.

“So – looks like Delacour is fair game now, huh?” Roger Davies pokes Oliver in last period History, and Oliver quells down the urge to smack the track captain with his textbook. 

*******

Marcus starts whining – oh no, sorry, texting, Oliver that night while Oliver is attempting to finish his math homework.

 

[10:24] **I wasn’t even AT the fucking party**

[10:24] **wtf**

[10:25] **I was at home, watching Game of Thrones. with you.**

[10:25] _I know, u big dummy_

[10:26] **yeah well Parkinson’s pissed I apparently “made a move” on her girl**

[10:26] **she punted my helmet across the field today**

[10:26] _HAHAHAHAHA_

[10:26] **u fucker**

[10:26] **tell Delacour to sic her off me**

[10:27] _nah ur on your own for this one_

[10:27] _Parkinson’s scary af_

[10:30] **and they say I’m the mean one**

[10:30] **can I come over**

[10:31] _parents are about to go to bed_

[10:31] _so no I’m not gnna ask them_

[11:05] **…….**

[11:05 **] I’m coming over**

[11:06] **in fact I just parked my car**

[11:07] _FUCK why do you always DO this_

 

“How the fuck do you manage to scale up to the second floor?” Oliver says petulantly, as Marcus raps his knuckles sharply against the window a couple minutes later. His boyfriend clambers in with surprising grace, and Oliver goes back to his problem set, cursing whoever invented calculus.

“Natural skill, practice, and fear of falling.” Marcus stretches his arms, before flopping down onto Oliver’s bed with no preamble.

“Where’d you park your car? And take off your shoes.”

“Just down the road. Now,” Marcus says, glancing at the way Oliver’s gnashing his teeth at the papers in front of him, “Are you going to continue doing math homework – which is fucking easy, by the way – or are you going to come over here?” The quarterback lounges back against the covers, as if it were his bedroom instead of Oliver’s.  

Oliver huffs. “Math homework. I need to finish this.” He feels more than sees Marcus rolling his eyes.

“Fine.” There’s the sound of Marcus’ shoes dropping to the floor, but Oliver’s more preoccupied with what the heck that squiggly symbol floating next to all the numbers is.

Fuck math.

“So I talked to Padma Patil.” Marcus starts, tone of voice forcedly casual.

“M’not mad, Marcus.” Oliver says absentmindedly. Why the fuck is there a fraction within a fraction within another fraction? He rifles through his textbook because he definitely did something wrong.

“Yeah, well, clearing things up with Patil probably wasn't the smartest thing.” Marcus sighs. “Apparently, talking to someone nowadays means that I’m going to ask them to prom.” He tosses a pillow into the air, letting it thump back down instead of catching it.

Oliver scribbles out his latest answer, and turns to regard Marcus with a questioning gaze. “So…?”

“Abbot saw, MacMillan’s a gossip, and now the rumor has spread ten-fold and is pretty much seen as fact.” Marcus glares sullenly at the ceiling, hugging the pillow defensively against his chest. Oliver turns, watching Marcus’ sullen expression, the quarterback’s annoyance palpable in his whole body.

He and Marcus had broken up before, once. Had a big rousing fight nine months in, and Oliver had stormed off because there were rumors about both of them hooking up with someone else, and they’d both been too insecure to quell down the jealousy and talk it out rationally.

( _They’d gotten back together within a week, after Oliver’s car broke down one day after practice, and he’d been stranded in the parking lot. Marcus had found him shivering in the rain and offered an awkward ride home._

_“Um. How’ve you been?” Oliver had asked awkwardly, trying not to get too much water on the car’s upholstery – Flint’s known for being touchy about his car._

_“Fine.” Marcus muttered in response, and the rest of the ride had been in silence, with the occasional offhand comment about the weather and school. Oliver had been ready to bolt out the car by the time they pulled up to his driveway, but when he’d turned to say thanks, Marcus kissed him, out of habit._

_“Shit.” Marcus sighed as Oliver leaned back in surprise “Shit, I forgot. Sorry.” But the quarterback had looked so sullen and sad, how Oliver had felt the entire week, that Oliver had ended up pulling Marcus in and kissing him back._

_Marcus hadn’t minded the wetness of Oliver’s shirt, after all_.)

Rumors have always spread about the two of them, and sometimes they get a bit much, especially when parties and alcohol get into the mix. But they’ve worked at their trust, worked at talking – so this thing about Padma Patil doesn’t sting as bad as it probably would have, two years ago. He just wishes Marcus wasn’t so hard on himself about it all.

Oliver swings his chair around, so he’s leaning on the back of it. “It’s just rumors, Marcus. They’ll die down.”

“Don’t like it.” Comes the muffled response, Marcus now burying his face into the pillow. “I hate people getting into my personal business.”

Oliver sighs. “Same. At least the team has stopped trying to set me up with Fleur.”

Grey eyes peer up at him over the length of the pillow and Oliver decides, begrudgingly, that math homework can wait until tomorrow morning. Maybe Percy will take pity on him and the chicken scratch Oliver has been trying to work out for the past two hours.

“C’mere.” Is all it takes for Marcus to spring off the bed, and then Oliver is being pressed up against the nearest wall, Marcus nuzzling into his neck like a cat.

“Finally paying attention to me.” Marcus snickers, hands already rooting up underneath Oliver’s shirt, and Oliver’s stomach clenches at the firm brush of long fingers. He knows he shouldn’t be getting this distracted, but there’s just something magnetic about his boyfriend, even after all this time.

Oliver huffs, head tilting back to let Marcus kiss down his neck. “So needy.”

Marcus doesn’t bother responding, because he knows it’s true. Instead, light kisses and nips of teeth on skin is what Oliver gets – he pulls Marcus upright to kiss him properly, taller boy making a pleased hum against his lips. He tangles his fingers into Marcus’ hair and pulls, drawing a light moan from Marcus’ mouth.

Marcus raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t think that’s what you wanted.”

Oliver mirrors his boyfriend’s expression. “Oh, and you tackled me against the wall for another reason, right?”

Marcus doesn’t even bother looking half ashamed, far too happy with marking Oliver’s collarbone with little bites. Oliver shoves him away half-heartedly, not wanting to have to deal with explaining the bruises tomorrow to his friends, but Marcus just moves his lips to worry at Oliver’s earlobe, sensitive spot always capable of making goose bumps prickle on Oliver’s skin.

Marcus grinds his hips slowly into Oliver’s, and he can feel his own cock stirring at the steady friction, but Marcus has taken control of kissing him thoroughly now, barely allowing Oliver to gasp for air, before reclaiming his lips again and again and again.  

Marcus fingers the waist of Oliver’s jeans, hips still rolling steadily and making his erection apparent. “Can I try something?”

Oliver’s eyes flutter shut as Marcus finally cups his hands over his cock, pressure easing the ache a bit. “Depends on what that thing is.”

Marcus strips himself of his jeans, cock slapping up against his stomach before answering, and Oliver tries really hard not to fall to his knees immediately and take Marcus in his mouth.

“Nothing that’ll hurt your chances of playing soccer.” He winks roguishly and Oliver rolls his eyes, letting Marcus undress him. He tugs at Marcus’ shirt, wants to trace up and down that defined stomach but Marcus turns him deftly over, and Oliver has to brace his hands against the wall to keep from falling to the ground.

Wet hot kisses are trailed down his back, and Marcus caresses his sides, Oliver shivering at the light touch. “Marcus -”

“Stand with your legs together.” Marcus kisses his cheek, his lips, his jaw - hands already pushing Oliver’s hips into position. Oliver feels the head of Marcus’ thick cock nudging against his thighs.

“Hold them together, yeah, just like that.” Marcus murmurs hotly against Oliver’s cheek. “I wanna try this.”

Oliver stands, thighs tight against each other, and then he feels Marcus’ cock slowly sliding in between them, the quarterback biting out a curse. Marcus is hot against the sensitive skin of Oliver’s inner thighs, and this shouldn’t be half as arousing as it is, Oliver clutching at the wall in front of him as Marcus’ thrusts pick up a bit of speed.

“God,” Marcus groans, “Always wanted to fuck your thighs, paint them pretty.” The dirty words send shivers down Oliver’s spine, and he moans as long fingers pinch at his nipples, forcing him into arching to get more of Marcus’ teasing touch. The slick slide of Marcus’ cock rubs against his perineum, the slight pressure not enough.

“Yeah. Oh, fuck Wood, bet you’d do anything I ask you, huh?” Marcus pants, teeth scraping along the sensitive side of Oliver’s neck and the brunet involuntarily squeezes his thighs tighter, earning a low moan from the man behind him.

All the blood rushes to Oliver’s cock at the hitch in Marcus’ breath – something so simple as this, no penetration and yet it’s the dirtiest thing they’ve ever done. Oliver feels used, his body merely an instrument for Marcus’ pleasure and god, that has him reaching for his own cock, desperate for some friction.

The position has Marcus’ cock pressing up against his balls, and Oliver moans as Marcus’ hips snap more urgently, picking up speed. It’s taking all of his self-control and will power to hold his thighs still, because he’s trembling all over, wants to spread his legs and fulfill the need to feel Marcus everywhere, deep inside him.

Marcus’ sure hand wraps around Oliver’s, urging Oliver to jerk himself off more roughly. He feels his hole clenching, unused to not being taken at this level of arousal, and Oliver whines as Marcus traces a finger lightly around his rim.

“Marcus, don’t.” Oliver protests, cheeks heating up, because it’s too teasing, to have something so close to where he needs it to be, wants to push himself back and fuck himself raw on Marcus’ cock.

Marcus’ breath is hot against his ear. “Shh, baby, you don’t want your parents to hear now, do you?”

“Want you in me.” Oliver moans in response, too overcome with lust to care about how his parents are home, just a couple doors down. His head tips back to rest on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus calls him ‘baby’ only when he’s close, pet name dripping off his tongue like all the other dirty words, and Oliver would blush at the effect the name has on him, if it weren’t for the fact he really, really wants to come.

Marcus slides a finger into Oliver, dry, and the searing heat of pain and friction coupled with the strong thrusts against his balls has him muffling his cry with his fist, body shaking at the intrusion it was unprepared for. His thighs clamp down unwittingly, and Marcus shudders, cock pulsing and spurting as he comes with a quiet groan.

Stickiness drips down Oliver’s thighs, and Marcus lathers his finger with it, before pushing back into Oliver. It’s lewd, and hot, and incredibly, incredibly depraved and Oliver can’t get enough, hips jerking back eagerly to get Marcus’ finger pushing at where he wants, anticipating the burst of pleasure.

Marcus pulls at Oliver’s earlobe with his teeth. “Baby, baby, look at you – you wanna be filled, huh? Want my come, hot in you, marking you up so everyone knows you’re mine.”

Oliver gulps, thighs trembling as Marcus finally locates his prostate, finger curling just so. White hot pleasure courses through Oliver’s body, and his arms threaten to give out, muscles aching.

“Fuck,” Marcus croons into his ear, “you’d like it if I fucked you loose, wouldn’t you, baby? Come in you and plug you up so you could feel me in you, all day. Make you go to practice with something stretching you open, how about that?”

Oliver trembles at the thought, can picture himself jerking off desperately in the locker room showers. Marcus’ words twist around him, dirty and promising and oh, _oh_ , he wants more than just the single finger Marcus is twisting into him, achingly slowly. His balls are heavy, drawn up and he wants to be split open, needs the addictive stretch and press that only Marcus can give him.

 A knock on the door has them both stiffening, exchanging identical looks, eyes wide in panic.

“Oliver, sweetheart.” His mother calls, and Oliver is thanking every deity he knows that he remembered to lock the door. “I heard some noises, is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Oliver calls back, clearing his throat a bit to make his voice seem normal, “Yeah, just annoyed at this math homework.”

Marcus muffles a snicker against Oliver’s shoulder, and Oliver bats behind him to shut his boyfriend up. But Marcus seems to have gotten a hold of himself, and there’s a dangerous flash in his eyes when Oliver glances back. Oh, fuck, if he’s going to-

“You should go to bed soon, Oliver, it’s late.” His mother continues.

But then Marcus is slowly slipping a second finger into him, grin sharp and Oliver chokes back the groan as he’s stretched just the way he wants.

“O-okay.” Oliver manages to respond, voice a little too strangled for his liking, but _fuck_ , Marcus is stroking him gently with one hand, the other still thrusting insistently into him, and Oliver is caught between intense pleasure and morbid terror at his mother just outside the door. Fingers curl and press deliciously on his prostate, and Oliver feels the familiar heat growing in his gut, made even worse as Marcus sucks at his pulse point, sensitive spot that always has him melting.

Fuck, he’s going to kill Marcus.

“I’m sure Percy would be willing to help.” And Oliver loves his mother, he really, really does, but her chattiness right now is going to be his biggest downfall. “Is it that chapter about differentials?”

“Mm, baby, you’re close, aren’t you?” Marcus whispers hotly into his ear. “Can feel you tightening around my fingers.” He licks a hot path across Oliver’s ear and Oliver doesn’t muffle the groan in time.

“Oliver, sweetie, are you alright?”

“Yeah, Mom, just – _fuck_ – stubbed my toe!” Oliver calls back, pleasure mounting and desperately hoping that she doesn’t hear any other sounds. “G-going to go to bed n-now.”

“Alright. Goodnight, honey!” His mother’s familiar footsteps are a blessing, padding away farther down the hall, and Oliver exhales sharply, panic fading.

Whimpers are building in the back of his throat, and Oliver stuff his fist into his mouth, teeth sharp against his knuckles, because Marcus keeps hitting that glorious, glorious spot, and he’s so goddamn close.

One of Marcus’ finger slides across the head of his cock, fondles the sensitive spot just below the tip and Oliver unravels, biting down so hard he’s sure he’s drawn blood, thick white streaks of come painting his stomach and Marcus’ fingers.

“Fuck.” Oliver breathes, gasping for air. “Fuck, Marcus.”

Marcus’ grin is devilish in the dim light of his room. “That was fun.” He licks his fingers clean, then turns Oliver’s head just enough to kiss him thoroughly. Oliver can taste himself and he shudders as Marcus pinches his nipple one last time for good measure.

He shoves Marcus away, grabbing the nearest towel to wipe himself off. “Oh yes, great fun, let’s see how loud Oliver can get while his mom’s right outside the door.” Oliver mocks, because Marcus is looking far too pleased with himself.

“ _Babe_.”

“Don’t.” Oliver whips the dirty towel at Marcus, who splutters as it hits him in the face. “Fuck, I need a shower.”

“So shower.” Marcus places a placating kiss on Oliver’s cheek. “Lemme make it up to you by finishing that calculus, hmm?”

Oliver sticks his tongue out, childishly, he knows – but Marcus just snickers and grabs the sheets of math homework closer to him, already focused. Oliver’s good at writing stuff out, but Marcus has always been better with numbers.

When Oliver returns, hair damp and dripping onto his collarbones, Marcus is curled on his bed, body forming an arch that Oliver knows he fits snugly into. He clambers on, careful not to disturb his boyfriend, who seems to be dozing off already. When Oliver shifts the covers, however, strong arms latch around his waist and pull him closer.

“Hi.” Oliver whispers.

Marcus presses a sleepy kiss to Oliver’s bare shoulder, snuggling into him and muttering something intelligible.

“You know you’re going to have to sneak out tomorrow morning.” Oliver reminds Marcus, letting himself sink back into Marcus’ warmth.

“Whatever.” Marcus grunts, burying his face into the crook of Oliver’s neck, and Oliver strokes his dark hair absent-mindedly. Marcus when he wants something is always able to get it – and Oliver loves both the boy who can take him apart with just a simple flutter of fingers, and the boy who is clinging and gruffly sweet in all the best ways.

*******

The rumors don’t bother him, even if Marcus always eyes him warily when they’re in the same room, just to check in – but Oliver forgets that he’s not the only other half in this equation. 

He’s munching on an apple, watching Fred and George attempt to spitball their younger brother’s milk carton, when the cafeteria falls into a hush – Marcus has just stopped to chat with Padma Patil in the lunch line, and everyone watches with bated breath.

“Lunch line – Flint’s not much of a romantic, is he?” Alicia comments.

Oliver crunches his apple louder as Padma Patil laughs at something Flint says. But before he can respond, there’s a clatter behind him, and the distinct clunk of heavy boots.

All the heads in the cafeteria whip around to see Pansy Parkinson standing on a lunch table, hands on sharp hips, with Blaise and Draco exasperatedly hiding their faces after helping their friend achieve her position.

“I have had enough.” Pansy hisses. “ _Enough_. Flint, get the fuck _away_.”

Marcus moves back with his palms raised. Pansy glares menacingly at her staring classmates, before pointing at Padma, who is frozen mid-reach for a banana.

“Padma Patil, you are _mine_ and we are going to prom together - no take-backs!”

Padma squeaks out a ‘sure, Pans’ before hiding behind her book-bag at all the stares now directed to her, and her twin sister cackles with laughter at Padma’s stricken and blushing face. Pansy looks pleased and gestures for Draco and Blaise to once again help her off the table. She pats her skirt down, stares pointedly at Oliver, and returns to her meal as if she hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb on the entire Hogwarts High population.

“Wow.” Angelina says, wide-eyed. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Parkinson and Patil.” Ron whistles lowly. “Would not want to mess with that duo, that's for sure. Sucks to be Flint.”

Marcus is making a big show of being dejected, quietly poking at his pizza and taking the ribbing and jabs from his teammates with responding sneers. But when Oliver catches his eyes, Marcus shoots him a small smile and Oliver just knows that Marcus is more than pleased at this rumor finally being quelled.

 

[1:33] _did you ask Parkinson to do that_

[1:33] **aren’t you in class rn**

[1:33] _you responded awfully fast_

[1:34] **touche**

[1:34] _so did you??_

[1:35] _because I appreciate it but still – kinda dramatic, don't u think?_

[1:36] **no**

[1:36] _‘no’ to you planning it or ‘no’ to dramatic_

[1:37] **both, baby, both**

*******

“Oliver, why is Flint following us in his Mustang?” Alicia kicks the back of Oliver’s seat as he pulls up to a stop sign, and Oliver notices Marcus’ black car in his rearview mirror for the first time, too occupied with replaying practice and how he needs to improve to have noticed sooner.

“Is he?” Oliver plays nonchalant, because it’s a Friday and Marcus is on his way to their usual date spot, a small diner in the next town over. 

Katie peers backwards as well. “Oops, never mind – he turned away. Odd.”

Angelina snorts. “You think it’s odd that Flint isn’t tailing us? I’d think it’s odd if he was.” She continues to text frantically, no doubt responding to the twin’s constant bombardment of messages in their group chat, because Oliver’s phone is vibrating constantly in his front pocket as well.

Oliver usually drives Katie, Angelina, and Alicia home from their Friday practices, and he times it perfectly so he arrives at the diner at the same time as Marcus. But for some reason, Marcus is running early. Before Oliver can ponder why, however, Angelina shrieks so loudly that Oliver slams on the brakes.

“WHAT.”

“GEORGE ASKED ME TO PROM.” Angelina cheers, and her two best friends raise their hands in congratulatory whoops.

“Wait,” Oliver catches Angelina’s eyes in the mirror, “He asked over text?”

Angelina rolls her eyes good naturedly, flipping her braids over her shoulder. “Look, I explicitly told him girls - aka me - don’t want a ginormous scene and he actually listened. So this is amazing." 

“So you knew he was going to ask?” Oliver narrows his eyes.

Angelina shrugs. “Well, yeah. He’s been hinting at it.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” Oliver mumbles, but Alicia pokes him repeatedly in the shoulder.

“Who’ve you been hinting at, Oliver?” The brunette grins cheekily.

“No one,” Oliver laughs, “I’m not one to drop hints. Oh hey, we’re here.”

He thanks his lucky stars that they just pulled up to Alicia’s house, because Oliver doesn’t think he’d be able to last with the three of them interrogating him thoroughly. Angelina and Katie pile out of the car, soccer equipment clunking behind them, but Alicia stares sternly at Oliver for a few seconds longer.

“C’mon, Oliver – some childish fun never hurt anybody.”  
  
“I’ll save the childish fun for next year.” Oliver pushes Alicia gently out of the front seat.

“You’re graduating!” Alicia calls, before turning and following her friends into the house.

Oliver waves them off, then turns and heads towards where Marcus is no doubt already waiting. He taps a rhythm on the steering wheel, but he’s more conflicted about whether or not he should actually be considering prom plans, or he should just be a no-show; it’s not like Marcus has dropped any hints.

Oliver groans. Why does one silly little dance have to be so complicated?

He pulls up to the diner, and Marcus is, as expected, in their usual spot, dark hair just able to be seen over the tall red booths. The old waitress gives Oliver a smile, and he raises his hands in a hello before dropping opposite of Marcus.

Marcus is leisurely sipping on a chocolate milkshake, long legs sprawled underneath the table and letterman jacket tossed to the side. Oliver resists the urge to steal Marcus’ drink – chocolate is his weakness, but he’s still in-season, after all.

“Hey.” Marcus says with a big slurp.

“I thought your coach told you guys no extra sugar?” Oliver asks, raising an eyebrow at the drink. “You’re going to lose those abs.” He jabs a finger into Marcus’ bicep.

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Wood, you’ve seen my abs and you know they’re not going away anytime soon. Do you want anything?” Marcus tosses him the menu, as if they both haven’t already memorized the list already.

“Nah.”

“Suit yourself.” Marcus clears his throat, glances at a spot over Oliver’s shoulder, and runs a hand awkwardly down his face before taking Oliver’s across the table. Oliver pulls back abruptly at how cold Marcus’ hands are from the milkshake. Marcus stares at his empty hand with a furrowed brow.

“So uh. Prom.”

“The whole school’s still fucking wild. It’s kinda pathetic actually.” Oliver sighs, fiddling with a napkin and starting to tear the edges.

Something flashes across Marcus’ face that Oliver can’t place – anger? Distaste? No, that’s not right. Oliver cocks his head at the fact that Marcus is now blushing and averting his gaze.

“Well,” Marcus clears his throat, “Yeah, but it’ll be at a pretty cool hotel, right?”

“I guess,” Oliver says glumly, “But nobody cares that the Friday before is the _championship_ – everyone’s going to be too busy prepping for it to come cheer us on.”

The same look flashes across Marcus’ face. “Wait – oh right. Um, you could put up posters by the prom ones -”

“And on top of that,” Oliver continues, caught up in his soccer worries, “I’m probably going to get roped into driving for Katie, Angelina, and Alicia – which is fine, I guess, but I dunno, it’s such a waste.” He sighs, now rolling the napkin strips into little disks.   
  
When he looks up, however, Oliver realizes that Marcus is visibly crushed – mouth a flat line, grey eyes just staring sullenly at his half finished milkshake. He panics momentarily, guilty that he’d been caught up in his own thoughts when Marcus was very obviously trying to tell him something.

“Shit, Marcus, I’m sorry – what’s wrong?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Wood.” Marcus snaps, glaring at his own hands. “I was _trying_ to ask you to be my date, but since you think prom is pathetic and you’ll be busy-”

“Oh.” Oliver says, blinking confusedly. “I didn’t realize.”

“Yeah.” Marcus says, wringing his hands together, and Oliver grabs Marcus’ hands to try and make amends.

“Can we try that again?” Oliver asks sheepishly. “And I promise not to be an oblivious fuck this time.”

Because yeah, he’s worried about winning the championship and someone will most definitely get into a fight at prom, but maybe he can talk himself out of carpooling and he really, really wants to see Marcus in a tux.

Marcus sighs, but strokes his thumb over the back of Oliver’s hand all the same. “Look, I know you probably think it’ll be a waste of time and that you could spend the day just playing soccer or something-”

“True.” Oliver says before he can help himself. Marcus glares sternly.

“But. Well, I think it’d be pretty cool to show up at prom together, y’know. Like an official couple.”  
  
Oliver cocks his head. “We are an official couple.”  
  
“Shock the school, I mean.” And at that Marcus smirks slightly. He coughs embarrassedly right afterwards. “So uh, I guess it’s just – Oliver, will you go to prom with me?”

“Sure. Yeah, okay.” Oliver says after a moment, and it’s anti-climatic, with how hyped up prom is – but he and Marcus are simple, really, always pretty much on the same page. Oliver thinks he gets what Angelina meant now: instead of promposals and a dozen roses and balloons, Marcus grinning across their usual table, in a greasy little diner with the setting sun streaming in through the windows, is better than any elaborate affair.

He reaches across the table to take a long sip out of Marcus’ milkshake, because the chocolaty goodness is right there, and goddamn it, he’ll run it off later. Marcus attempts to smack him on the head, but he’s pleased, eyes crinkled.

“All black though.” Marcus says firmly. “We’re not doing color matching shit.”

Oliver rolls his eyes. “It’s not like we have time to go shopping for tuxes anyways.”

“True.” Marcus says simply, before leaning across the table to give Oliver a kiss. Marcus tastes like chocolate and minty gum and Oliver thinks it’s kind of silly that such a simple thing can quiet down his worries so well.

“Sorry, about earlier.” Oliver squeezes Marcus’ hands for extra measure, wanting his boyfriend to know that for all of his ramblings and deflecting of prom, he’d still love to be Marcus’ date.

Marcus waves it away with a nonchalant hand. “I know you well enough to know soccer comes first.” With a grin, Marcus pushes his milkshake towards Oliver. “Since you can’t stop eyeing it, just drink the rest.”

Oliver shoves the milkshake back. “Stop tempting me, you fucker. C’mon, let’s head up to the spot. Catch the sunset.”

“Such a _romantic._ ” Marcus drawls, but he waves the waitress over and asks for the bill all the same.

The drive up to their spot takes thirty minutes from the diner, looping dirt roads up the slight hiking range surrounding the two towns. Marcus leaves the windows down, lets them enjoy the good weather, and Oliver tilts his head back to let warm sun kiss his face. It’s empty, as it always is, when they pull up to their little perch, sun just beginning to set and Oliver hops out of Marcus’ Mustang to drink in the familiar sight of little houses glistening with gold.

Marcus gets out lazily, draping himself on the side of his car, jacket an even more brilliant green in the sun. “I’m gonna miss this, man.”

“Yeah.” Oliver says and they stand, still, for a couple moments.

In the sweep of excitement for the championship (and now prom), Oliver almost forgets that graduation is on the cusp, that they’ll be jetting off to different schools at the end of the year. Marcus had been recruited early to a university out west, place cemented on the football team, and Oliver a few states away from their hometown, Division I soccer scholarship too big an offer to turn down. Time zones and different schedules are just small details to navigate – the distance his heart has to cross is another.

Marcus chuckles. “I can _hear_ you thinking.”

Oliver doesn’t respond, chooses to instead snag his fingers through Marcus’ belt loops and pull himself closer. Runs his hands over Marcus’ shoulders, feels the scratchy fabric of a letterman jacket underneath his finger tips – smells Marcus’ familiar cologne and presses his face against Marcus’ neck. A comfort that he’s been spoiling himself with.

“Hey.” Marcus says, uncharacteristically quiet, “We’ll make it work.”

It’s almost funny, how on the same wavelength they are with each other.

He kisses Marcus, long and slow and gentle, and he likes this – how they can get away a bit, just focusing on them. He likes it – Oliver’s going to miss it when the inevitable end of the school year swings around, but he tries not to think about it too hard, makes both his head and heart hurt. Instead, he frames Marcus’ face between his palms and smushes the quarterback’s cheeks together.

“I hate you.” Marcus tries to say, but it comes out more like “Aye habe oo”. Oliver laughs uproariously. 

“No you don’t.” Oliver snickers, rubbing his nose against Marcus’. “You love me.”

Marcus lets out a long-suffering groan, but his grey eyes are fond as they stare back at Oliver. “Keep telling yourself that, Wood.”

*******

He’s pleased and happy, floating off the high of good practices – Ron and Harry had approached him with a spectacular game plan just the other day, and not even Malfoy had found anything wrong with it. Oliver’s damn excited to try it out on Monday.

He’s also cheery with the idea of prom, for once, just the idea of going with Marcus bringing a smile to his face.

His friends, on the other hand, aren’t too pleased with his secretive ways. Prom’s two weeks away, and the team had once again cornered him in the bathroom, demanding answers to their questions about his prom date. Oliver had wormed away with the flippant phrase of “Looks like Flint got the girl” and darted out to history before they could catch him.

“Honestly,” he’d heard Malfoy scoff before the door closed, “You’d think he likes the drama.”

That was this morning – and now Friday evening finds Oliver, sprawled on his couch, ignoring the constant bombardment of texts he’s been getting, all his friends seemingly banding together to get him to admit to a date, or convince him to ask someone quick.

Oliver licks the spoon for remnants of cookie dough ice cream (his mom bought a fresh tub, alright, he caved) and scrolls through the messages during one of the commercial breaks.

 

 **Harry** [10:23]

Wood, who are u going to prom with? Look I really don’t care, its Fred and George….

 

 **Fred** [10:59]

CAPTAIN TELL US!! Is it Romilda Vane?

 

 **George** [10:59]

Parvati Patil?

 

 **Fred** [10:59]

Lavender Brown?

 

 **George** [11:00]

Hermione??? Idk im running out of people

 

 **Fred** [11:00]

yo if you’re taking Ginny, that's messed up

 

 **Ron** [11:33]

Wood, look, its all cool to admit u don't have a date I mean…

 

 **Perce** [12:04]

Please just fess up so the twins will stop. Please.

 

Oliver throws his phone back on the couch, attention turned back some late night re-run of _Friends_. But then his phone rings, sound loud in the otherwise quiet house, and Oliver jumps on it to put it on silent, lest he wake up his parents. 

Marcus’ ID flashes on the screen, but before Oliver can pick up, the call has ended. He’s about to dial back when a litany of texts come flying in.

 

[2:03] **baby**

[2:03] **oliver baby**

[2:03] **babyyy**

[2:03] **i love you baby so mhuch**

 

Oliver furrows his brow – Marcus is supposed to be hosting a football party right now, his parents away on yet another business trip that launches them halfway across the world and leaves the Flint’s large estate empty. The quarterback is clearly drunk, and while Oliver smiles a bit at the sappy messages, he should probably still check in.

 

[2:04] _marcus, you alright?_

[2:04] _prob shouldn't drink anymore_

[2:06] **m fine**

[2:06] **pucey and higgs were eye fcuking each other over the table**

[2:07] **so I left the room hahahhahaha too funny**

[2:07] _finally – where are u now then?_

[2:09] **my room**

[2:09] **oliver wood**

[2:10] _yeah, that's my name, marcus_

[2:11] **baby I love youu**

[2:12] _well aren’t you cheesy tonight_

[2:14] _drink a lot of water okay?_

[2:16] **I am drinkking water**

[2:19] **lmao pucey and higgs are fighting oopsss not good**

[2:21] **oh well**

[2:25] **bby im so lucky to hve you**

[2:25] **like woooW imagine if we were like Adrian and Ter hahahaha**

[2:26] **oblivious fuckers**

[2:27] _yeah pretty lucky huh?_

[2:27] _i love you too, get some rest_

Oliver snorts as Marcus sends a blurry selfie over Snapchat, too dark in his room for Oliver to really see anything. There’s something to be said about Marcus when he’s drunk – affection more apparent and tongue a lot looser, sweet nothings spilling into Oliver’s voice mail more often than not.

Hogwarts High may be murmuring about how Flint has gotten the girl, that Oliver is flying solo because he somehow ‘lost out’ – but Oliver knows who the real winner is in the whole equation.

It makes playing it cool that much easier, even amidst his friend’s frantic texts.  

*******

The movies definitely make prom look a hell of a lot nicer. Oliver takes a sniff at the suspiciously red punch, and sugar hits him straight in the gut. But they’d won – he’s been floating off the championship for the past twenty-four hours, and that means he can reward himself with all the sugary sweets he wants.

He takes a sip – okay, yeah, definitely spiked.

The walls are draped in some whimsy light fabric, and Oliver’s pretty sure Italy never had disco balls in Shakespeare’s time, but there they are, twinkling charmingly under the strobe lights. More people are clamoring on the dance floor than actually dancing, but there’s a raucous group (led by Fred and George) doing what looks like the beginnings of a square dance.

 A photo booth is off to the side, little paper cutouts with quips about “Who’s your Romeo? ;)” and “#JulietIsBae” for people to hold up.

Hermione Granger crashes next to Oliver for a moment, surveying the decorations with a look of devastation. Oliver thinks she looks rather pretty without her two ton books, periwinkle dress shimmering lightly under the lights. He tells her so, which causes her to smile lightly, before once again throwing up her hands in exasperation.

“This totally neglects the whole premise of the play.” Hermione sniffs.

“I dunno ‘Mione,” Ron settles in next to her as Harry goes to get drinks, “I think Greengrass looks like they’d rather stab themselves than stay with their date any longer.”

The rest of his teammates swing by, nudging Oliver to “at least ask someone here to dance, Wood!”, but he waves them all off, choosing to chill with the rest of the guys who aren’t having a grand old time. Marcus had to finish a shift at work – he’d been unable to twist his boss’s arm into letting him off, much to both their chagrin.

(“It’ll add to the dramatic entrance?” Marcus had asked, trying to find the silver lining.

Oliver had smacked him with a pillow hard enough that Marcus had fallen out of bed with an undignified squawk.)

“C’mon Pucey, why the long face?” He nudges the wide receiver with his elbow, Adrian sullenly shifting along, “Edgecombe looks like she wants to dance with you.”

Adrian merely glares at the other side of the room, where Terence is laughing with one of the cheerleaders. Oliver wonders if some liquid courage would actually get these two love-struck idiots together, after years of pining. Marcus would certainly approve.

And speak of the devil – the doors to prom open and then there’s six foot three of tall, broad-shouldered quarterback standing there looking absolutely amazing in his suit.  At the small smirk on Marcus’ face, Oliver can tell that he’s _enjoying_ this. The attention hog.

Oliver bites back a grin as he hears Lavender Brown heave a loud sigh of “Finally!” – a sentiment he feels as well.

Parvati peers around her twin’s shoulder, however, and immediately scans for signs of Flint’s elusive date. “Wait…is he alone?”

The duo whips out their charts (laminated now, by the looks of it) and after a quick scan with everyone peeking over their shoulders and checking around the room – Fleur Delacour is, nope, currently swaying happily to the music with her boyfriend, Bill – Lavender and Parvati exchange extremely confused looks. Oliver watches all this with amusement, snickering to himself.

“Enjoying yourself, Wood?”

“Not really.” Oliver grins cheekily up at Marcus, lounging casually, as Marcus weaves his way through the crowd to get to his corner of the room. Everyone’s watching their movements, but Oliver, for once, doesn’t mind being the center of Hogwarts High’s prying eyes and ears.

“And why’s that?”

Oliver takes another sip of tangy sweet fruit punch. “Well, you see – my date had to work tonight. So now I’m here all alone.”

“Pity.” Marcus laughs, over Fred and George’s fervent whispering in the background. He grabs Oliver’s hand and pulls him up quickly, with just enough force to crash Oliver into his chest. “Sorry, Ollie. How ‘bout a dance?”

“Thought you’d never ask.” Oliver can’t help the smile tugging at his lips, because Marcus looks good under the faintly pink lights, and he barely even cares that everyone around them is clamoring in surprise – right now, Marcus’ attention is focused solely on him, eyes soft and affectionate and Oliver is soaking it all up to his heart’s content.

Adrian gapes at them as they make their way to the dance floor. Across the room, Oliver spots Higgs mirror the expression.

“Listen to me for once, Pucey, and actually go for what you want.” Marcus calls over his shoulder.

Adrian glances hastily at Terence, who’s staring right back at him. Oliver watches them slowly get up and leave in unison, Marcus flashing a pleased grin at the same sight.

The DJ’s got some Ed Sheeran song going, slow and tugging at heartstrings. Marcus’ hand is firm in his, the other gentle around his waist and Romilda Vane and her friends sigh wistfully as Marcus presses his forehead against Oliver’s.

“This isn’t that big of a waste of time.” Oliver says, and he knows he’s smiling like a sop, delayed tipsiness from the spiked juice making him floaty and content. He catches Marcus’ cologne amidst the mix of perfume, pulls himself a little closer, drags his fingers lightly over the sharp line of Marcus’ jaw.

“Mm, its not bad.” Marcus rumbles, and then he catches Oliver’s mouth in a kiss that has the student body whispering around them, but Oliver doesn’t care – will probably never care again what everyone thinks; they’re leaving in less than a month and Marcus is looking at him like he’d just scored the winning touchdown and Oliver is giddy and in motherfucking love.

Marcus kisses him again, nipping lightly at his bottom lip and it’s sweet, how securely Oliver’s being held against him. Ron yells out a “Damn, Wood, get it!”, tall red head peeping out from the crowd, before he’s shushed with a harsh jab to the gut by Alicia. Oliver laughs into the kiss and when he turns, his teammates are all shocked but giving him thumbs ups.

They stumble out of the spotlight after a couple of rounds on the dance floor (“I’m hungry.” Marcus whines into his neck halfway through), choosing to let Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory spin graciously to take their place. Marcus gets his food, munching happily, and Oliver almost chokes on his drink as Fred and George start begrudgingly awarding the winners of their bets.

“Here?” He hisses. Sure, the teachers are outside but _still_.

“Better now than never.” George sighs, pulling out a neatly folded sheet of paper from his tux. “Okay so – well, Vane’s out, so is Delacour and – wow, shit. Shit.”

Fred peers over his brother’s shoulder. “HB – is this dude psychic or what? Okay, who placed their bets as ‘HB’? Anyone?”

“C’mon, man you’re getting like a hundred bucks here. Damn.” George squints suspiciously at the paper.

When Percy taps primly on his brothers’ shoulders, Oliver really _does_ choke on his drink.

Fred and George’s mouths fall open akin to the actors exaggerating in infomercials. Percy merely clucks his tongue, murmurs a “Finally” and collects the winnings from Fred’s slack grip.

“Thanks for that, Oliver.” Percy winks at him, and Oliver shakes his head – Weasley’s always have a way of surprising him.

Marcus is filling Oliver in on the new puppy that they’d found on the front steps of the shelter – “A brown lab, Ollie, you’d love her” – when Adrian and Terence crash down on the seats next to him. Oliver raises an eyebrow at their intertwined hands and rumpled clothing, but Pucey only rewards him with a blush.

“Shut up.” Adrian mumbles as Marcus snickers, but he doesn’t seem to be too put out when Terence laces his arms through his and drags him up to dance. 

“They grow up so fast.” Oliver sniffs. The alcohol may be hitting him right about now.

Marcus rolls his eyes. “Finally – I think I’ve had enough of Adrian waxing poetic about Ter’s face for the rest of my life.”

Oliver watches George twirl Angelina exuberantly, sees Katie blush as Alicia compliments her dress, and Higgs is hiding his smile against Pucey’s jacket. And then there’s Marcus, running his thumb absentmindedly along the back of Oliver’s hand.

“Hey,” Oliver whispers, just as Fleur Delacour takes the stage to announce Prom Queen and King, “You wanna get out of here?”

Marcus kisses one of his knuckles and Oliver feels the joy bubble up in his stomach like champagne. “Take it away, Wood.”

*******

Marcus forces Oliver to put on a seat belt and “stop _wiggling_ , Wood, Jesus, how much punch did you have?”, but Oliver is too giddy and tipsy and Marcus too enamored to really mean his nagging. They wind up driving leisurely up to their spot again, the town just faintly alight with the flickering of suburban windows.

Oliver clambers out of the Mustang, throwing his jacket onto the hood and proceeds to sprawl out and stare at the stars. “This is perfect.”

“Apparently Diggory won Prom King.” Marcus says, scooting Oliver over so he has a spot to lean on as well. He turns off his phone with a decisive swipe of his thumb. “No surprise.”

The ground spins when Oliver stands up, so he makes the decision to clamber onto Marcus, because without his jacket, it’s a little chilly, and Marcus always runs warm. He’s not one for drinking most of the time, always a practice to be held the next morning, but this pleasant buzz makes him feel like he’s floating.

“You are so very drunk.” Marcus laughs as Oliver slips a bit trying to rearrange their limbs.

“Am not.”

“Says the drunk person.” Marcus runs his fingers through Oliver’s hair, teasing smile blooming on his lips.

“You know,” Oliver whispers conspiratorially after a moment’s pause, “I still don’t know how football works.” He snickers as he buries his face into Marcus’ neck.

Marcus snorts. “Oh really?”

“Yeah.” Oliver nods solemnly. “Like – you punt – throw the ball? And like, no feet? Why is there so much grunting, anyways? And you have to run four quarters-”

“Four downs, Ollie.”

“Oh, okay.” Oliver sways a bit as he scoots further onto Marcus’ lap, grateful for the steady hands around his waist. “And then uh, you score a touchdown. And win!” He finishes brightly, throwing his arms around Marcus’ neck.

Marcus sighs. “You make it sound so simple, you fucker. What do you do during games then, anyways?”

“Mostly stare at your ass.” Oliver says bluntly, and he can feel Marcus’ laugh vibrate under his palm. “Hey, it’s not that funny.” He can’t help but pout.

“Nah, you’re a right standup comedian. It’s okay. Just need you there cheering.” Marcus smirks up at him - his shirt is opened by a few buttons, tie hanging off to the side, and Oliver really, really, really just wants to run his hands through Marcus’ slicked back hair and kiss his boyfriend senseless.

He tries to lean in, but then he’s stopped by Flint’s steady hands.

“Ah ah ah.” Marcus hums. “You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“So,” Marcus explains solemnly, “I can’t have it getting out that I’ve taken advantage of the poor wholesome soccer captain while he was inebriated, can I?”

Oliver frowns. “But I _want_ kisses.” He whines.

“Oh, you _want_ them, do you?”

“Yes.” Oliver mutters sullenly. It’s not his fault Marcus looks so good right now.

“Well,” Marcus sighs as if bearing a great weight on his shoulders, “I really am powerless to deny the oh-so-great soccer champion what he _wants_ – umph!” Marcus’ words are cut off as Oliver smushes his face happily against his boyfriend’s.

“You love me.” Oliver declares breathlessly once they part.

Marcus runs a thumb over Oliver’s bottom lip, mouth twisting into a small smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

And Oliver feels far too giddy for such a simple response, but he does, and he wants to float off into the sky and do loop-de-loops, if only flying were possible.

It’s not like Marcus hasn’t told him before, amidst drunken voice mails and quiet dinners and lazy Sunday mornings when they’re both sleepy eyed and basking in the sun. It’s not like Marcus hasn’t told him before -  but Oliver likes this moment maybe a little more than the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I too, like Oliver, have no idea how football works. Or soccer for that matter. And math. 
> 
> The school I went to was wild about prom, it was drama and promposals galore - so Hogwarts should only be ten-times that, right?
> 
> May possibly continue this into a college AU, we shall see.
> 
> Hope you liked it! Also, find me screaming over Flintwood and Drarry and Terence x Adrian @ mxrcusflint on tumblr.


End file.
